Human No More: Reforging a Princess
Reforging the Body "Headstrong as always. Father would’ve been so proud of you, Leia,” the princess muttered to herself as she crested another of the rocky outcroppings dotting the surface of Korriban II. The moon was desolate, but the surface of it was habitable enough for someone with at least an ounce of common sense and a couple of spare rebreathers. She had gone off alone, determined to prove to Luke and Han—but most importantly, to herself—that she could handle herself in a difficult situation with the assistance of the Force. At best she was an adept, not even truly a full apprentice; she knew her talents lay on the diplomatic track, not the warrior’s path. But here she was, the brash princess—headstrong, as she called herself—traipsing across the barren landscape to determine whether there was any truth to the rumors that had been filtering through the Bothan spy network: whether the Sith—the ancient red-skinned race, not simply the would-be dark Jedi—had become increasingly more active on both their homeworld and on the moon, using dark sorceries of ages The landing itself hadn’t been easy. Even given her flight in the stealth-blackened Z95 Headhunter, the ion-charged atmosphere of the moon shorted out her systems and forced her to land with more of a thud and a crash than the smooth touchdown she’d anticipated. She’d need to steal one of the Sith’s ion-shielded ships in order to escape the surface—if, she mused, they’re even here. And it was with that determination to find their base that she loaded up her supplies, some spare rebreather cartridges, and set off in the direction of the vague, weak signal she’d detected as she scanned the planet the first time. Hours later, the low-built hangar doors on the structure built into one of the many rock walls were a welcome sight. “Sabbac,” she mused with a grim grin as she grabbed her macrobinoculars and snapped off a few shots of the evidence. She could practically see her beloved Correllian’s smug smile and hear the word in his own voice. But the voice that spoke behind her was neither smug nor comforting. “Only a fool would gamble using her life as the pot.” The voice belonged to a tall, menacing figure, a thick black-and-chrome mask ethed with ancient marks and runes disguising his features. And before she could raise her blaster or her lightsaber, the butt-end of a saberstaff came crashing down on her temple. The last thing she saw as her consciousness faded was that this wasn’t a lone assailant—she’d been boxed in by similarly-masked figures, each bearing that same black staff. She never stood a chance. *** The dull throbbing she felt at the side of her head was the first—and last—thing she noticed as she began to stir. The cell in which she lay was mostly dark and fairly dank; what moisture the moon held seemed to all be underground, clinging fast to the rock walls of her steel-barred cubby. But the pain was, in its own way, welcome; it meant that she was alive… for now. Hair bound up in one of her intricate braids had been let loose, flowing most of the way down her back and bound only thrice at regular intervals to keep it from tangling or choking her. A chill ran over her body as she felt a draft pass through from the open, barred window—a chill, she noted, that passed over nearly naked flesh, her protective and survival gear stripped away. “Bastards!” she swore softly, taking silent stock of what she’d been left with. And in this galaxy, this universe, if there was one set of clothing she despised more than any, it was the similar outfit to which she now wore. Gold metal hugged the curve of her tender breasts, hints of ebon silks sewn in giving only the barest illusion of modesty. Strong, thin wires held more of those silks tightly in place along hips and waist still in shape after not only twins, but after a third child. “That’s no way to speak of your hosts,” spoke a cold, deep voice just beyond the low twilight filtering into the cell. Leia narrowed her eyes, trying to see who stood just beyond the light’s range. “Brave words to a naked prisoner,” she snipped. “You’re not naked—at least, not currently, and not yet.” Leia couldn’t help but shiver at the slightly gravelly tone to the voice, sounding not unlike some of the dark-toned Sith holocrons to which her brother had exposed her. “But that will change soon enough once you do, dear Princess.” “Princess? I don’t know what you’re—“ A wave of force—of true Force—passed from a hand suddenly outstretched into the light, a crimson-streaked black glove now clearly visible, throwing the slave-clad princess against the cold, wet stone of the back wall. “The first rule, Princess… is not to speak unless asked a direct question. The second—do not treat us as fools. The price of peace, Princess Organa, is celebrity; there is virtually none in this galaxy who does not know your face.” With a soft groan of modest pain, Leia stood back up and trudged back towards the bars. “Then you know I have powerful friends.” “Who’ve no idea where you are… nor that you survived the crash of your ship all those leagues away from here,” the gravelly voice continued. “Very clever to fly your stealth ship through the space around Korriban, but the moment our sensors detected the atmospheric disturbance of a small craft penetrating to the surface, we knew someone was here. How… fortuitous… that such a prize has presented itself to us.” The princess spat out at the mostly hidden figure. “I’m no prize to be won,” she grumbled, as menacingly as she could in her predicament. The dark-voiced figure stepped forward, the rune-etched mask now bathed in the moon’s twilight. Tiny flecks of something in the mask began to glow a sickly pale blue-green, enhancing the menacing features etched so deeply into that armored faceplate. “No… but you will be a prize to be offered when we are finished… testing.” A chill ran down Leia’s spine. “Testing?” “Testing,” he repeated. “Such perfect raw material does not simply present itself every day. Now relax, Princess.” The hand twisted once, fist clenching, and Leia could already feel a lethargy overcoming her. “And trust me when I tell you this won’t hurt one bit.” For the second time in her hours spent on the planet, she felt consciousness disappear as the door opened and two more of the black-masked figures withdrew the limp form of the princess. *** Again Leia awoke, but this time she had to quickly shut her eyes to protect them from the bright lights that assaulted her as surely as any weapon. As her eyes began adjusting to the bright light, she found herself in a room millennia different from the primitive rocky cell she’d been in; this was a sterile, white bay filled with the most modern of technologies, from a fully-installed bacta tank in one corner to a gleaming, freshly-cleaned medbay along the wall. Dozens of colorful panels gave the biometrics of hundreds of living beings about the planet—including, on a larger screen, her own vitals so prominently displayed. Checking her own state and position, the mostly-naked princess felt herself sprawled out on a large, metal table, held at a curious angle with her arms and legs splayed wide. It was a series of powerful magnets that held her down, the bands at her wrists and ankles bound tightly to the table to keep her from sliding or pulling away. The sheer thrum of power beneath and behind her holding her fast made her shudder; a subtle test of the bindings eliminated further hope for any escape. “It was the... junk... left behind during your victory at Bakura that gave us the final piece of what we needed here on Korriban II,” the voice said as a speaker clicked and crackled to life in the room. “The Ssi-Ruuvi were geniuses in their own right, even if their aims were… primitive.” Barely stirring, her mind still muddled by the Force-induced lethargy that laid he rout the second time, Leia slurred her words as she struggled to comprehend what her captor was saying. “…Ssi-Ruu… the… they…” she murmured, struggling to complete her thought. Slowly, the synapses began to connect, and what she began to remember made her turn a whiter shade of pale across her own body. “…en… entechment?” Just what the hells were these insane fools up to? The speaker clicked once before the voice returned. “Nothing so crude as machine ‘life’,” he said, voice filled with disdain. “No, Princess. But the transfer of one life to another they perfected intrigued us, and it gave credence to other legends of our people from ages past.” The door to the sterile lab opened, and in strode her captor in all his dark, red-skinned glory, the mask no longer necessary in the manufactured environment of the experiment chamber. “Why turn one into a machine when its flesh can be fundamentally altered instead, perfecting it and making of it what one desires?” The captive, bound princess began struggling once again, testing the magnetic bonds to their fullest.“You’re mad.” One hand raised, a crimson fire flaring subtly from his fingertips until it coalesced into a ball. “On the contrary. I’m quite sane. It is you who suffers from a madness—a madness which, over time, shall be broken free of you and cured.” Quickly his hand shot out, striking the captive princess in the forehead with a resounding crack and forcing it against the softly vibrating metal table. Leia grunted once at the smack as that dark power flowed out through that hand, and the guttural, ancient language of the True Sith filled the room. “But you’ll understand soon enough when you’re presented to our benefactor. He has no use for such pale creatures as you humans. His eyes enjoy… other refreshments.” The effects were immediate and devastating as the words and power, the Sith magics and the Ssi-ruuvi machinery in unholy concert, channeled through the dark wielder as its conduit and flowed into the captive princess. Her back arched as she groaned and screamed, flame and lightning arcing between her bound, prone body and the metal of the table, feet suddenly en pointe as her every muscle tensed all at once. Fingers spread and braced against the table as she pushed hard, whimpering once, twice, as that power ripped through her every cell, every pore, fundamentally altering the captive’s shape and size down to the very core of her being. Flesh began to tingle and burn as pale pigmentation gave way first to a salmon pink, then to a deeper, eye-catching, brilliantly glossy red. Hips shifted and cracked as the subtle shape of the action princess filled out little by little, padded by freshly-grown curves that grew out from suddenly shapelier, less muscular calves and thighs. She belted out an agonized cry of pain as her stomach folded in on itself, shrinking, growing far more taut, while her breasts grew and grew. Layer upon layer of pillowy bosom shifted and grew beneath the ebon and gold cover—a gentle B, soon a C, giving quick way to shapely, firm DD’s barely held in place by the now-undersized top that strained to hold back the delights inside. As the tingles of pain and bursts of pleasure continued pulsing throughout her body, her captor and torturer smiled a cruel, semi-rictus grin. “Such a hardy creature you are, girl,” he said, pausing in his efforts, allowing Leia to catch her breath; he didn’t want her passing out from the exertions upon her body. “Of all those who’ve survived the testing, your distinctive lack of screams has been… disconcerting. But I assure you, it will make the end product of this testing far, far sweeter to sample.” A second blast of Sith and Ssi-Ruuk magitech coursed first into him, then into the princess, forcing her vision to go from normal to white to red as her optic nerves fired off in absolutely terrible pain, from cornea to brain, finally eliciting the first true scream from her as the effect rendered her utterly blind to the rest of the testing. Only the dull throbbing from a head that felt far, far heavier in the pain reminded her that this time, the one time her body should have allowed it, did she not fall unconscious, left awake and adrift as the rest of the so-called testing was carried out to tortuous completion. *** She didn’t remember if it had been minutes, hours, or even days before the pain began to slowly subside. She’d been awake enough, just barely on the edge of consciousness the whole as she lay back in her cell. The pungent odor of damp, slightly mildewed walls reminded her of half a dozen similar places she’d been in the past. Images of the rescues of her future husband deep in the bowels of the Tattooine fortress of the late Huttese crimelord Jabba played out across the back of her throbbing mind like a flickering holovid. Your eyesight will return in time, she had reminded him then, just as she reminded herself now—in time, she noted silently, for her own vision to actually clear. It was the thirst that overcame her that made her move sooner rather than later, shifting about and falling from the thin mattress laid atop the rock bed hewn from the very walls of her cell. The scent, the feel of water still permeated the dank cubby, and as she shifted to seek out anything to drink her feet—bare feet, she realized—stepped in a puddle on the floor. It was cold, it was dirty, but by all that was holy, it was wet; it was enough, she reasoned, it allow her survival in this barren place. But the sudden rattle of metal as she moved filled her with dread; the puddle was so close, barely at the edge of a length of chain that now held her braced wrists in place. It was all she could think of, all she could do to lean down, arms bound tightly behind her, and lap at the puddle with an outstretched head and craned neck. The image within the highly-reflective puddle, though… the image that moved precisely as she did made her gasp in no small hint of fear. The image was not the self-confident princess she saw in the mirror every day… but the soft, sultry, sex-pet visage of an exotic, deep red, Lethan Twi’lek. Scrambling back from the puddle, the princess raised her hands to her face, to the finely chiseled features that made up her new, higher cheekbones and soft jaw. Slender fingers traced the puffed lips, the slightly pinched almondine eyes as she felt about for something anything that might be familiar to her. Her breathing grew faster, more shallow as a light panic set in while her fingers explored the conical ears now adorning the sides of her bare head, a head whose lekku—tender, exquisitely long, and utterly hairless—made her shiver with unexpected pleasure at her own almost erotic touch. The early morning light spilling into the cell’s singular window played across the rest of her body as she scrambled back up to the cot, revealing that is wasn’t just the lekku that were devoid of any hair, but the entirety of her body—even, she noted with a shudder, the most delicate of places, the nether lips just as soft and puffy as those so prominently on display. The sound of soft footsteps barely echoed in the hallway above the sound of Leia’s ragged, gasping breaths. “Good… you’re awake at last,” said a woman’s voice, a mezzo tone at once both firm and seductive. “And you survived the testing. Even better.” With a tremor in her voice, she tucked her legs up against her mostly-exposed, oversized chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, feet tucked up before her to try to hide the now heart-shaped ass upon which she sat. “I’m warning y—“ She stopped, midsentence, hearing her now-altered voice for the first time, higher in pitch, in timbre, and with traces of breathiness to it that were so indicative of a particular class of Lethan Twi’leks born and bred for nubile servitude. The woman laughed a dry laugh. “Oh, that’s rich! Salimat really outdid himself with this one,” she said, shaking her head as she keyed open the barred door of the cell. “Get up, pet. Enough beauty rest—it’s time to present you to your new master.” Reforging the Name Only moments later, the new Lethan Twi’lek—the ex-princess—found herself being hoisted by freshly-minted and polished chains and dragged from her cell into the dank corridors leading from the prison cells. The less chance she had to resist, her captors reasoned, the more pristine her physical condition for her arrival. Yet still, they paused along the journey and brought her into a well-lit room at the front end of the rock-hewn prison. “Get in, girl,” one captor sneered, giving her chains a tug, the deep red flesh around the edges of the wristplates darkening as the blood rushed to the surface. Leia hesitated—there was no telling what fresh horrors awaited her within. “And if I don’t?” she tried, her new, breathier voice hesitant in its otherwise defiant tone. “Then, girl,” came another voice from down the corridor, “you won’t be given the opportunity to be presented as anything other than a pathetic, dirty little object.” The voice was soft, sensual in its own right even as the tone brooked no further defianceor discussion. Its owner was herself a bit on the tall side, with a natural grace even as she walked closer. She was cleaner than any of the other guards and slave handlers, and better dressed—one who’d earned her station by remaining in the high favor of those in control and command. Her head lay half-shaved, the white-streaked, space-black hair all spilling down towards the right, the bald area marked with a highly stylized tattoo at once both beautiful in its intricate grace and sinister in its purpose as an identifier as to who owned her. With a little bit of a swallow, Leia complied and entered the bright room, squinting her purple, almondine eyes against the brightness and in slight fear as to what lay within. Jars, tubes, and other unguents dotted a small table, and a series of sun-bright, movable lights were attached to poles by snaking arms: a beautification chamber, not another of the myriad horrors she feared awaited her herein. “What we’re using on you, pet, is quite unlike any normal makeup,” her new handler explained as she began to apply the raw pigmentations with an artist’s flair and a maestro’s touch. “What we’re using for you is… special. Designed to be removed with only a specific set of chemicals, and designed to be reactive to certain external stimuli—say, perhaps, the pheromones of a Trianii male might activate a certain alluring striping pattern to that delightful red skin. Or a Hutt’s saliva might simply make you turn purple as he draws his tongue across your flesh.” Leia hesitated and flinched a couple of times as the paints were applied across her face and neck, up her newly-created higher cheekbones and all the way down her hypersensitive lekku, causing her to clench her thighs in secret, shameful delight as that fresh body reacted to that fresh stimulation. As her eyes closed, she forced her breathing to remain normal, even steady, as the makeup application was being finished across her shoulders, her back, to the very tops of her larger breasts. The unpleasant memories of being prepared in a similar fashion for the late Jabba slid across her mind, clawing their way up from the very depths of her nightmares, until they were interrupted by the quick click of a hidden cabinet door being opened along the side. The panel swung wide, small boxes stacked three-high at the bottom and even smaller scraps of fabric draped across a dozen hangers. “I think, pet… for you, we’ll start with black—the color of open space. Something you’ll never see unless your future master chooses to take you out among the stars.” The slavemistress reached in and withdrew three boxes and a set of fabric from the hanger as two smaller creatures entered the beautification chamber, ugly little things that reminded her of what might come from a combination of inbred Bespin Ugnaughts and Alderaanean porcupines, dusk-hued,spike-skinned little creatures that would cause as much pain when struck if not more than would be given if she tried to lash out at them. Each box contained parts of her new ensemble, and the spiky black things began fitting them to her piece by piece. Sandals first were strapped to her feet, flimsy things of leather bottoms with swirling and crossing golden straps that laced and buckled tight nearly to her knees. Bracers were next, black ceramics over metal, outlined again with the same gold trim that pulsed in time with the beating of her new heart—an organic tracker that quickly synced with her to provide a perfect readout of her vitals and location within one meter. The third piece was the simple fabrics, midnight black with tiny Kubaz zirconium chips throughout, giving every bit of illusion that deep space itself flowed across those magnificent globes, with only the golden border keeping the fabric from letting loose. The headpiece, though… that was the masterpiece of the ensemble. The exterior appeared to be nothing more than a simple leather harness and band that slipped about her head, but as it was fitted (with only minimal resistance, as the ex-princess’ fears about being bloodied by merely touching the pair far outweighed her otherwise fierce nature), the truly devious parts of the band began to make themselves manifest. The barely-too-small harness exuded a constant pressure about Leia’s head as it was tightened, the dull ache the first reminder of her new status. Small zirconium studs dotted the leather, the backs digging slightly into her skin so as to mark her as property should the straps ever come off. But most disconcerting to the wearer were the small leather-covered metal caps that fit snugly over those conical ears, at once both ornamental and utterly functional. Each earcap, deep within the beautiful, glossy leathers, had been fitted with tiny microspeakers, devices which could be turned on and off at their owner’s whim, allowing the slave to hear only what must be heard, never anything that didn’t need to be, from white noise blotting out anything save the most basic of commands, to the translated words of an alien master’s tongue. “Perfect,” the slavemistress said at last after making those final adjustments. She licked her lips as she stepped back, taking in the Lethan vision that the princess had become. “The Sith magus has perfected you quite well. Even I couldn’t tell that you had been something else before this.” “Perfected me into some cheap Twi’lek whore,” Leia muttered darkly—though the dark tone sounded less angry with her new voice, instead much more like a petulant, pouting little girl. The slavemistress smirked. “If that’s what you believe yourself to be,” she gloated ominously, “so be it. A Twi’lek you are, and a Twi’lek you will remain. As the magus said, we’ll cure you of those delusions of humanity soon enough.” Those words filtered in through those speakers as though in a direct line to the core of her dangling, smooth brain-tails, settling deep within her slightly unstable psyche. Leia rubbed the red of her flesh desperately, trying to scrape off the pigmentation as though it was just some kind of deeper makeup or dye job, trying to think of ways to peel away the layers of alien shell that had been wrapped about her. No solution was readily apparent as the realization that should Han arrive, or Luke, Mara or even Winter arrive on-planet to rescue her from this torment, not a single one of them would recognize her for who she was—only as another one of the dozens of objectified, living amusements of the nebulous master of this world. She shivered a little bit, as much from the cool air in the depths of Korribani moon as her own fear, that hairless flesh too sensitive and too available for any wandering hands. Suddenly , a spark of an idea formed at the tip of that re-formed and re-formatted brain. The Force… it ran strong in her. Those slanted, purple eyes closed as she began to clear her mind.'' Focus and concentrate,'' she told herself, already hearing those words in her new voice rather than her old one. There is nothing to stop me from breaking these bonds. The shackles are a lie. This form is… is… Her arms trembled as she tried to summon even the slightest bit of the Force, to break the tracking bracers… …but nothing happened. Not even a scratch upon the metal or the ceramics. The slavemistress laughed once as she watched the pathetic display of power ever-lacking. “Resistance is a useless trait, pet. I think you’ll find that whatever control you thought you had over the Force is gone. After all, what need has a slave for such trifling power?” Something within her snapped and the newly-minted slave tried to lunge at her captor, only to shocks at the wrists and ankles by the very clothing she now wore, knocking her to her knees. “At least there’s still a tiny bit of that fire in you. The master would hate to see that eliminated before he had the chance to snuff it out. All right, pet… time for you to move on.” “Move where?” “It’s time to meet your master, pet. Past time, in fact. The master expected his Gola an hour ago.” Leia shuddered. “Gola?” "I don't think you will answer to Leia anymore, pet." "But I am Leia." "No, pet. That's a human name, unbecoming of a proper Twi'lek pet," the slavemistress smirked, grasping the slave's lekku and giving them a vicious tug. Bolts and tingles shot up those sensitive tails, eliciting both a moan of pleasure and a whimper of pain. "And you're very much not a human. I think in full I'll call you... Gola'una. Yes. Gola'una. A perfect name Twi'lek name for a delicious little pet like you." "My name, witch, is Princess Leia Orga--" she repeated. The slavemistress responded by slapping her. "No! You are-- and forever will be-- Gola'una! Do you understand, girl? Or must I beat this into you?" Faced with the prospect of uncomfortable, painful slapping across the breadth of her newly sensitive flesh or a series of excruciating pulls on those brain tails, the ex-princess backed down. "F-fine." “Fine what, pet?” the slavemistress asked expectantly. “Fine… mistress,” she said through gritted teeth. “Very good, Gola’una. Again, you show hope and promise.” She attached a thin lead to the too-tight harness about the slave’s head. “Get up, girl, and follow.” A short time later, the newly-named Gola, the former Leia, was taken through several winding, labyrinthine corridors before finally entering her master's room. As they rounded the final corner, it opened into a vast, semi-lit chamber not simply blasted out, but carved out of the rock of the moon and smoothed down to a well-polished sheen. A dozen and a half sycophants and courtiers lazed about the room, each with either a slave of their liking or a drug of choice well in hand. And at the end of the room, in the center, atop a dais that could only barely support the weight upon it, was the one being whose green, obese form she’d never again expected to see leering at her. Jabba the Hutt. The unknown Sith Lord beside him, the magus who’d begun the torture of her reshaping, confirmed that fear with a grim smile as she was presented. "As I stated, huttlord, this one is a perfect specimen, far superior to the others we transformed." The obese crimelord allowed a smug smile to spread across his face, the sluglike belly rolling with each deep, ugly laugh. "Tell me your name, slave." "My name is Leia!" she began defiantly, only to receive another painful tug at both lead and lekku from the mistress who'd presented her. Only after she screamed out in pain not once, but twice did she finally relent. "Gola! My n-name is Gola'una..." she corrected, breathing heavily as she flinched, silently begging to avoid another dizzying yank of her crimson flesh. The slug laughed, bulbous flesh rippling with each chortle. "Very good, slave. You can be taught obedience yet. Soon enough, Gola, you will accept your humble place as my nubile pet." The last vestiges of the proud princess began to fade away under the realizations that all she had achieved with Jabba's death had been for nothing, and that the slug was far superior a foe. At the back of her mind, she tried to convince herself that hiding within the Gola'una personality would be better, to bide her time-- even if she was no longer convinced that it was simply a personality, that the slave was all she was and would ever be. "Yes, master,” she finally whispered, the weight of her defeat and the beginnings of her humiliation beginning to burn within her. With a gesture, the mistress tugged on the new slavegirl's lekku, baring her neck for the placement of a dark metal collar about her, heavy with wicked little spikes and thick rings. "Unbreakable, pet, is that collar-- and lined with Cortosis Ore to keep from being so easily severed by a Jedi's blade," she was told, further dulling her expectations of escape. Tough links of leather and chain were attached to one of the rings, a long leash tethering her to her Master's throne-- just long enough to give her the space she needed to perform. The sluglike Hutt leaned forward, green eye boring down into the girl’s soul. "Show me a Twi'lek's finest attributes, Gola," Jabba demanded with a wide, lewd grin. "Present yourself to dance." "Master, I-- I am not trained to dance the way you-- urkkk!" The Hutt slammed one of the buttons on his throne, tightening her spike collar to choke her until she couldn't stand the pain. Only after he released a tiny bit of slack did she accept the proposal, steadying her panicked breath as she began to dance with a simple, well-trained spin-- the graceful dances of a youth spent among royalty. It was something more courtly than anything else, dances she’d been trained in from her own youth, with little bows and spins that made her new lekku dance about like ribbons of flame about her head, always chasing but never quite catching up to her, until the music ceased and she finished by sliding low, legs apart in a perfect split, as she bowed her head in utter supplication—a motion never a part of anything she’d been taught, but so very much a part of that which she’d seen in her first enslavement under Jabba’s chains. “Salimat!” he demanded as his new Twi’lek remained there, her head down, soft white noise now keeping her from hearing anything else that went on about her. “Huttlord,” the Sith magus responded with a nod of his head, approaching carefully. Jabba chortled as the red-skinned male stepped forward. “Know that I’m pleased with this result,” he finally said as he stared at the prone dancer, breasts rising and falling with each heaving breath. “You said you’ve other captives ready for the change?” The magus Salimat nodded. “Nearly a dozen,” he replied with a grim smile. “Including a few once known to this Gola’una of yours.” The slave’s head perked up; her name had been the only word that had filtered through the white noise, the only word she suddenly recognized. “Use freely the resources you have on reshaping them, magus,” the Hutt said with a nod—at least, as much of a nod as he could. “And prepare them immediately for the second stage. Let us find out whether your machines and magics are everything you say they are.” “At once, Huttlord,” the True Sith replied, bowing once again. An eager grin crossed his face as he considered upon whom to begin his next conversion and, as he stared down the crimson slave still so positioned on the floor, the thought of just who to convert next set itself in mind. Even as he left, some of the Hutt’s most loyal guardsmen crossed the floor and hefted Gola to her feet. “You danced well enough… this time,” Jabba grumbled, waving his hand off to the right where a long table was being rolled across the floor. While she continued panting, the stamina of the new body still not quite where it should be, the guards seized her and bound her fast to the table by her wrists and ankles, pulling away the gold-trimmed black cloth that hid her most private parts. “And for that, I think my men have earned a second show.” Gola yelped and struggled against the bindings. “I’d rather die than be forced to—“ “''Boschka!” Jabba screamed, slamming on the arm of his dais. Gola winced, expecting to be dropped through the floor—or worse—yet nothing happened. “You! You tried to kill me in my own home and on my own barge! Twice you tried, and twice you failed! And all for what—the life of an unrepentant thief who can’t even be bothered to save you now!” He pulled on the chains about the table, dragging her in closer and closer to his slobbering maw. “And even after you tried the second time… if you had remained to watch me begin to breathe again, if you had groveled before me and asked me, ‘Mighty Jabba, spare my friends’ lives, and I will serve you faithfully as your slave for ten years,’” he said, getting in close. “If you had spoken those words from the depths of that tiny, fragile human heart and meant them, I would even have paid off Fett’s bounty fee to keep you. Instead… you are now this. A Twi’lek. My Twi’lek… my slave, my toy, and my pet.” He reached out and shoved the table back, letting it roll across the floor and spin some. “And you are mine to give… for the pleasure of my men.” Gola began to struggle again, still so very weak, and only after the first of his men had stripped himself of his boots and pants, preparing to ravage the bound slave, did she afford herself the luxury of consciously blacking out. Reforging the Soul Part One: Destroying Innocence Gola’una shivered a few times as she began to stir, returned not to the dank cell in which she’d lived before her transformation but—from what her newer, slightly more light-sensitive eyes told her—a much larger room than before. Rather than the rough-hewn rock walls of the previous cell, these walls were instead sculpted and covered, smooth walls with little purchase to grab hold of—or panels from which to fashion a weapon. Soft light played across the room in various shades of red and whites, giving the chamber a dusky hue meant to invoke the subtle twilights of the Huttese landscape (what few there were, given the Hutt propensity to terraform a world into a nightmare of plasteel and neon). As she peered about the larger chamber, the soft sounds of gentle music played through the caps on her conical ears, giving at least small comfort to the slave girl as she shook in the cooler room. And this time, as her half-lidded, almond-shaped eyes cast their gaze about, she realized she was far from alone. Long crimson legs uncrossed at the ankle as she slid off the silk-slick bed, careful not to make much of a sound as she stepped down. The music in her earcaps began to fade as she began to move, a steady breath of white noise replacing the dulcet tones of woodwind and cymbal to which she’d awoken, noise that would allow the words of her fellow captives to filter through and be heard. Even as she moved, she noticed a few other none-too-subtle changes that had overtaken her slave’s body as she’d slept; firm breasts, the size and firmness of Limmie balls both, and each feeling heavy enough to weigh her down. Not that her gait was entirely smooth; the grace she’d shown upstairs, the dancer’s grace, now felt momentarily lost to her as she adjusted to what she silently swore were longer legs than she’d had but a few hours earlier. As she crept closer to one of the other naked Twi’lek slaves trapped within the room, she found herself tossing her Lethan lekku over her shoulders—lekku that were, too, touches longer than they’d been at her creation. She looked like a woman, a proper slave whose body was still on the cusp of proper adulthood, yet trapped at the threshold of youth. The woman she’d found, the first slave she’d been near, began to stir at Gola’una’s unsteady, almost clumsy approach. Slicked flesh of a seafoam green glimmered in the low light as she sait, twin tails falling about her, the one behind reaching the base of the supple curves of her back, the one before resting across her own modest, luscious breasts. “Lethan,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, but still that higher-pitched, breathy tone similar to Gola’s own. “You are… new girl, yes?” The words were spoken in the common tongue, but the Tukian’s words were heavily accented. Gola nodded once, tilting her head to understand the words she’d heard. “''Ka, muchi,” she said, blinking a couple of times as the unfamiliar words left her own mouth. “Th-that is, yes, friend,” she translated quickly, assuming that her fellow captive had once been as human as she’d been. Her red flesh darkened a couple of shades, embarrassed not only for the shy hesitation she’d shown, but also for instantly assuming that her fellow captive had been as coerced and shifted into her role as she herself had been. The Tukian smiled a soft, broad smile, holding out a delicate, long-fingered hand to Gola’s right shoulder. She tapped twice at the dark covering upon the left ear. “The words we speak do not matter,” she said in the common tongue. As her mouth continued to move, she could hear now two voices—one, the strange words spoken by her counterpart, and the other a full translation, word and syntax, of the Ryl she was speaking. “Your ears, like your mouth and tongue, will adjust in short time.” Again Gola nodded, seemingly a touch more at ease under the Tukian’s subtle confidence. “Thank you. It is… not easy. I feel… fuzzy.” Her counterpart laughed, a light, sweet trilling laugh that both calmed Gola and caused the others about the chamber to stir. The delicate hand ran down the shoulder and arm, fingertips trailing about the wrist before tracing the almost perfect curves of the fresh Lethan form. “You are very smooth for being so fuzzy, Lethan.” The nervous laugh that passed through Gola’s lips was the first nominally genial sound she’d made since she’d arrived on… on… on whatever world this was. The name escaped her for the moment, and yet she paid it no mind. “Gola,” she said softly. “I am Gola’una.” Saying her new name—her only name, she corrected herself—sent a tiny frisson of pleasure firing across every nerve in her body, causing a delighted little shiver from her toes to the very tips of her lekku. She bowed her head in tender submission to the Tukian. “Graceful Gola,” the green-skinned one translated, bobbing her head twice in the perfect little nod of a well-trained slave. The bare tip of her left lekku brushed across the tip of her nipple with the nod, the slick-seeming flesh perking in subtle arousal. “Xaena’vida,” she replied, literally naming herself as Xaena who is pleasing to the senses. Not an inaccurate name, Gola thought almost aloud as though someone told her those very words. “How long have you been here?” Xaena tilted her head as if to think. “Many turns of the sun and season, Gola. But time has no meaning for those of us in the Master’s service—except to know when he is awake and demanding our company, or when he is asleep and we are at the tender mercies of the guards and our bondsisters.” “How many of us are there?” “Perhaps half a dozen. Maybe more. The Master is constantly increasing the size of the sisterhood; you are the third new sister in as many weeks.” Gola grimaced inwardly at that. “Who arrived before me?” Xaena glanced at one of the girls nearby, a tiny, porcelain waif of a girl whose pale flesh lay unmarked save for tiny bands of black and red tattooed all the way up her lekku and whose oversized breasts looked utterly out of place on so short a body. “That one—Pala’Torr,” she said with a nod. “She came to us with fantastic tales of the worlds beyond this, of a life beyond the Master’s chambers—and of a past that seems utterly fantastical at its core. She said,” Xaena whispered, leaning in close, “that she was once a human girl!” Again she let loose that trilling laugh—a laugh that interrupted the very notion forming in Gola’s mind that it was a familiar story, something that she though she herself had been through, and the nearly imperceptible sound of white noise that burst through those earcaps helped drive the ludicrous thoughts from her mind. The Lethan rolled her bare shoulders and shook her head, lekku twitching as she did, and laughed a nervous, noncommittal little laugh. “I should ask her about such a ludicrous tale, vashna Xaena,” she said, looking towards the ivory-pale bondsister, exotic in her repose. “It sounds impossible, yet something about it seems… it’s…” Her right braintail continued to twitch as her nervous confusion made itself manifest upon her otherwise bare flesh. “Go to Pala, Gola’una, and learn her tale,” her erstwhile companion said as her hand continued its soft caress of the rosy slave’s supple body, the gentle stroking of the tender curve of those soft yet firm breasts at once both calming and, Gola admitted to herself, more than slightly arousing. “Lay to rest your own fears and doubts among the Master’s honored slaves—your own, and perhaps those of the lily-white beauty.” Gola simply licked her lips at those delicate green fingers brushed across the tiny cluster of nerves at the tips of her breasts, inhaling sharply as she stood to cross the room—stood, that was, before her own pleasures kept her seated across from the Tukian long enough to sate the forbidden desires that… that… “Unless, of course,” Xaena interrupted, a soft whisper in the rose-hued girl’s left ear, “you’d rather linger with me for a few more moments.” Her finger and thumb found purchase about Gola’s nipple, giving it a tiny, soft pinch. Gola stiffened her back and let out a soft, mewling little whimper of barely-disguised pleasure, the nipple perking at the delicate touch—a whimper that brought forth a tiny, giddy squeal from the seafoam slavegirl. “Your body tells me you desire to stay, hirani Gola. Pala is going nowhere—stay with me a while and relax.” The higher pitch of her voice grew husky, thick with desire, and the delicate scent of sandalwood wafted from about her—pheromones that only grew stronger as the jadeling drew herself up closer to her bondsister. Eyes pale as the sky grew to a well-practiced, enticing width as she set her soft gaze upon the new slave’s own. “Please stay, sister… I never have the chance to sample the delights of Master’s newest additions to the sisterhood,” she pleaded, eyes sparkling in the low light of the room, lips puckering as she blew a warm breath straight down across those exposed nipples. Breathing in short little gasps, breasts rising and falling with each quickening breath, Gola could only nod as the fog of lust settled over her sensitive, aroused body. Something began screaming deep within her, as though every fiber of the being that she once was tried reaching out from beneath the surface, gasping inwardly as she drowned in the pheremonal seas washing over her. With a soft sigh and a deeper blush to those crimson cheeks, Gola submitted to the soft pleadings, forced the drowning voice under as she knelt back down beside Xaena. Legs slid apart bit by bit upon the silks until she couldn’t spread any further, head now but a few inches lower than the other pleasure slave’s. She paused as Xaena leaned in closer, titflesh rubbing up against her. “Xaena? I-I… I’ve never…” she began, the conflicting memories certain, at least, of what she was about to say. “I’ve never sampled… I’ve never… with a-another woman.” The Tukian smiled, neither wicked nor gentle, merely a sinful smile of delight. Lips parted as she leaned forward, hands seizing upon those mounds of tender flesh, kneading at them tenderly. “I promise, Graceful Gola, to begin gently,” she continued in that breathy whisper, tongue darting out to flick once, twice at one of those perked nipples. “And to give you delights enough to wake each and every one of our sisters.” *** Upstairs, the banks of monitors trained upon the modestly vast slave chambers flickered a few times as the cameras remained trained upon the various forms about the room, the half dozen or so transformees whose slumber had been reinforced by chips embedded deep within the slavebands about their bases of their brain tails, bands that constantly stimulated the vast pleasure centers of their nascent minds and reinforced each and every tiny, imperceptible command fed into them. The mistress of the chambers strode casually across the monitor womb and leaned over the red-skinned young Sith watching the monitor with rapt attention. "Report, private?" she said, interrupting his wide-eyed reverie and making him all but leap from his seat. "The newest--" he squeaked before clearing his throat. "The newest girl is responding well to all finishing treatments, Ma'am," he reported upon regaining his composure. "Per instruction, I've uploaded the next set of subliminals to her earcaps, and the lifesign monitors report a 23% increase to her arousal levels-- and a nearly fourfold decrease in her rebellious natures when given a stronger personality upon which to feed." The slavemistress nodded. "Good work, Private. You may earn your way out of the monitor womb yet and be reborn to the surface world." The private saluted smartly, bowing at the neck. "For now, you may return to your voyeurism and... enjoy the developments." Part Two: Destroying Taboos Again Gola awoke in the warmly-lit communal chambers, slowly, languidly stretching out across the plush bed upon which she’d collapsed hours earlier, utterly spent and exhausted after her lust-driven session with the seafoam green Tukian who’d invaded her thoughts, her desires… and her very body. She discovered her gently slumbering partner Xaena still at rest beside her with no small hint of a smile across her face. It was a contented smile, the kind of smile her husband had on his face back on Coruscant when he—when they—when he and Leia had… The former princess blinked a few times, wresting control of the Twi’leki body for a brief moment as she looked about the room, before inhaling deeply the scent of sandalwood that still hung thick about them both— a scent which washed back over the breaking, splintered princess and forced her back under. It was Gola’una who clenched her sore thighs together, feeling the slightly dried remnants of her adventurous lovemaking session at her still-throbbing clit, across the tops of her smooth, rosy inner thighs. And it was the uncertain, nervous reaction of the Twi’lek slave that reached out for her the right of her lekku and brushed it down—only to find similar enough sensation of the dry, sticky feeling that coated her nethers. Truly mindfucked, she thought quickly, a soft, nervous laugh barely stifled—not quite enough to wake her partner. One final stretch is all it took for her to come back to what senses she had, blinking a couple of times at the thoughts, the feelings running across her jumbled mind. Just why were those desires so forbidden? she asked herself. Wouldn’t the Master appreciate her tending to—or being tended by—her bondsister? Images again flashed across her mind of another time, another life from before she’d awoken here—again that human body in the mirror, another one—rugged, handsome in his own right, calling her by a title rather than by a familial affectation, memories that were at once both hers and not hers—memories which, she told herself, would need to be made far more manifest if she wanted to believe in them. And Pala’Torr, the sensuously pale albino, seemed to be the key. Still covered in the aftereffects of her lusts, Gola slipped over to the refresher (I serve a Huttlord, but I need not smell like one, she noted silently) to quickly clean herself of the night’s exertions. In all, from the time she’d stood to the time she finished cleaning and reapplying the colors and makeup, she’d taken nearly 70 long minutes of jumbled thoughts and scrambled memories topped with a garnish of fragmented questions both about herself and about the others here. There were so many confusing memories dancing across her mind, and none of those dancing thoughts bore any of the grace of her clan, of the Una—it was more the frenzied mix of thoughts of one who’d been born to action, not born to grace and pleasure as she knew she’d been. Quietly, slowly, she lowered herself to the side of the bed where the albino lay; even the way she now sat spoke of a sinuous, sensual grace that lay ingrained within her exaggerated curves. The albino lay in gentle repose, face buried in the crook of her arm even as her excessively long braintails lay draped, even wrapped about her naked form. “ Vashna Pala?” she asked, her hand brushing across the silver slavebands about the base of each lekku so close to her head—and oblivious that she’d been addressing each of the bondslaves in Ryl, a language she couldn’t speak only a few days earlier. “Vashna Pala, are you awake?” “Mmmm, maybe,” replied the white-skinned one as she turned to stretch, legs far longer than her torso reaching out to stretch towards the end of her bed. Tiny goosebumps of silent delight radiated outward from the featherlight touch at the slavebands. “Who asks?” “Gola’una,” she replied, taking her fingers away from the silver bands. “The newest girl.” Slowly, carefully, Pala’Torr began to sit up, not unlike a cat (or a kitten, at her apparent size) with a delicate arch to her back that thrust out those luscious, milk-white globes so tantalizingly close to Gola’s lips—a tease that didn’t go unnoticed by the scrambled mind of the new slave. “New girl, yes," she said with a breathiness to her tone as the fog of sleep cleared from her ice-blue eyes. The very tips of those headbound tenrdils twitched as though completing the last of the stretch. "The Master's newest pet and my newest sister." She nodded at the description-- not wholly accurate, if the fragmented memories she kept seeing were true. "It is... it's something like that, yes," she admitted softly. "But that is not why I wish to speak with you." Even her manner of speech, her syntax had gotten lighter, more polite and more simple, since her change only a few short days ago. "And why, then, does my sister wish my company?" Pala asked a bit playfully, leaning forward towards Gola. The deep reds of the Lethan's flesh relected as much in the albino's as Pala's did in hers, the pair practically glowing shades of pink in the low light of the chambers. As Xaena smelled of sandalwood, the light scent of crisp magnolias surrounded the tiny area where Pala had been sleeping. "Is it that she sees me as a curiosity among all of Master's rare beauties?" Her lips quivered as the scent hit her, the pleasure receptors in her body already reacting and making both lekku twitch slightly in response. "Th-that isn't quite what I had in mind," she stuttered nervously, trying to mask the forbidden arousal about the second of her sisters, biting at her lower lip to force a tiny spike of pain to help her concentrate on what it was she really came for. "I have questions that I'm told you might be able to answer." Pala's head tilted, the right lek falling languidly across her thigh. "What kinds of questions?" Gola's eyes darted about the room, watching the others who slept, preened, or otherwise paid no attention to the two of them before she leaned in to whisper. "Questions about... about the time before you came here." For all the reaction she showed, Gola wondered if she'd even been heard. Pala took a deep breath and leaned in even closer, grasping at the tip of one crimson lek and wrapping it about her own neck, teeth but centimeters away from the tip. "Say nothing more," she mouthed silently, eyes no longer seemingly fogged over but suddenly sharp. Gola nodded, reading those lips with a skill she didn't quite recall she had. "I will awaken you at midmorning, when all are asleep from the night, and take you to the place where we can talk." Her tongue flicked out, barely teasing at the tip of that lek. "For now, act as though I've seduced you even further, else those who watch will know." That won't be too difficult, she thought, shifting where she sat beside the albino as little dimples and bumps of pleasure shot up and down that braintail at the lick across that sensitive flesh. One hand reached out to her pale bondsister, brushing across the top of her breast before reaching and caressing her bare shoulder. "Subtle, Gola... but you need to be more firm. Do this." Slender fingers wrapped around the pink wrist and brought it straight to her breast, eliciting a soft coo as she squeezed Gola's split fingers at the nipple. It was the deeper reaction, though, that brought Gola up short. Pala's eyes closed in soft bliss as she inhaled sharply, a mostly quiet gasp of breath as she forced that hand to squeeze harder. And as her eyes drifted back open, that sharp crystalline gaze began to noticeably fog back over bit by tiny bit as Pala allowed that slaveself to surface once again. "...thass better, sister," she slurred as the pinch lessened-- moments before the purple-painted nail flicked across the nipple again to draw out another whimper of delight. "...muuuuuuch better." The Lethan coun't keep from blushing a tiny bit once again. Certainly her time with Xaena had been filled with many firsts. But while she had fleeting memories of having the kind of attitude to take charge of virtually any situation, taking control of such an intimate moment with another female (your bondsister, she thought she heard someone say) still felt so very foreign to her. But yet, the magnolia scent wafted about her, drawing her back away from the questions trying to form within her, drawing her back into the softly cried reactions of the white Twi'lek. "You like that, vashna Pala?" she asked, at long last, surrendering to the budding pleasure slave building within her. "Very much, Gola," she whispered as she shifted on the bed, keeping that oversized breast planted firmly in the girl's hand. "And if I did this instead?" came the next question as Gola, as much to her surprise, leaned down to that engorged nipple and, lips puckered, allowed her pink tongue to dart out once, twice, flicking across the sensitive little niplle at the tip of the breast, followed by a near-whistle of cool air across the moistened, glistening skin. The effect was practically mesmerizing. Tiny dots of gooseflesh erupted out across Pala's pale form, radiating out across both smooth, milky white tits all the way up to her neck and down to her waist. Those eyes closed in delight and her tongue slipped out between her teeth, practically licking at the air, as she bit back the tiny whimper of pleasure she'd been given. "...eeeeeven better," she finally said, hands slipping beneath her breasts and holding that one out for Gola. "Please... more?" With the wicked smile of a predator whose prey had just been spotted, Gola stared at the proffered titflesh and happily obliged. *** "Slavemistress?" the private asked, watching the situation as it unfolded. "There is a status update." The heels of the slavemistress' boots clicked and clacked across the duracrete floor with each confident step. ""Report, Private?" The younger True Sith tapped a couple of keys and the section of the screen enlarged as the camera zoomed in on Gola's activities, on her greedily sucking at Pala's breasts for the carnal pleasures of them both. "The newest girl's training continues apace. She has absorbed the lessons she gained from the jadeskin and is using that knowledge on the pale one." The private shifted a tiny bit in his chair, a shift which brought a tight yet amused smile to the slavemistress' lips. "But there is more." Arms crossed, fingers tapping impatiently on her left arm, the smile disappeared as she silently admonished him to continue. "Go on." "The white one is showing signs of having resisted some of her conversion," the young man said. "I don't believe she knows that we fitted the new slave with the newer earcaps, and she arranged for a clandestine meeting between the two of them, off camera." The slavemistress nodded a couple of times-- and once again, that broad grin began spreading, a smile akin to the very one Gola had shown but a little while earlier-- but this one had darker tint enough to blot out the very stars. "Have Salimat summoned, and tell him to prepare the special program he'd considered for that one. She may be the Huttlord's exotic favorite, but we can make him another ivory girl. That one-- and all the others-- need a reminder of what it means to defy us... and to deny their true natures." Of course, this story is a parody on if Boba Fett had died in the following matter: he certainly did not.